Sky turns orange-red.
As the Earth rotates,
pushing the sun down,
Beyond the line of sight.
The sky turn black,
littered with shining, blinking lights,
Millions of years old.
Some roam the paths of
synthetic habitats made of stones,
To reach places of their desire.
Some seated on four-legged objects,
Consuming savoury food with their metal tools,
nourishing their stomachs and souls
while they communicate with their fellows
Of their so-called bad and good days.
Elsewhere, deep in those dark woods,
Scrambles for home,
Hide from ravenous consumers.
Some creatures hunt with their special abilities,
For they are kings and queens of the sky.
Six-legged creatures make sounds,
To attract attention of their fellows,
For joyous yet painful rounds of propagation,
Ignorant of their imminent deaths by flying mammals.